


Scattered

by Missgoldy



Category: Alien Quadrilogy (Movies), Alien Series, Aliens (1986)
Genre: Aliens, F/M, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Movie: Aliens (1986), Stranded, Survival, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:56:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21943258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missgoldy/pseuds/Missgoldy
Summary: Stranded on an abandoned planet and still traumatised by the events of LV-426, the three survivors attempt to forge a new version of normal.Ripley/Hicks/Newt
Comments: 15
Kudos: 51
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Scattered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reddwarfer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reddwarfer/gifts).



> Written as a treat for Reddwarfer as part of the Yuletide 2019 collection. Hope you like it!

The Sulaco lies in pieces behind them. The remains lie smouldering and scattered across the rugged terrain, black plumes of smoke still billowing out over the horizon.

They’re all weary with fatigue, still encountering the after-effects of an interrupted hyper sleep and the resulting crash that stranded them here. The lights still flash and the alarms still shrill; sharp and piercing if only now in her head.

Ripley lags behind the others, treading carefully, taking in their surroundings with a wary sense of unease. The air shimmers almost prettily, belying the harsh landscape they’ve found themselves in. The oxygen content is barely acceptable, causing a light-headedness that makes her want to curl up and rest for a while amongst the grit and sand that seems to permeate every surface of this planet.

Two figures lead the way. They amble along; one tall and broad-shouldered, laden with medi-packs and supplies salvaged from the wreck. The other is small and slender, her hair lying lank and tangled over one shoulder. Sweat and grime coat her chin and cheeks, and she appears exhausted.

Ripley watches Newt take a tentative step up onto a rocky outcrop of earth, her eyes scanning the horizon, much like she did on LV-426, and a sense of deja-vu descends.

Old habits die hard.

Newt leaps off and skids for a moment, her arms flailing as she loses traction. Ripley’s breath catches in her throat and she gives a strangled cry — a glaring overreaction considering the all-out war they’ve just escaped, and the monsters they’ve just blown into oblivion.

A slip and a low fall won’t kill the little girl, but Ripley leaps forward nonetheless, her arms outstretched to avoid the inevitable.

Hicks beats her to it, sweeping Newt up into his arms with a fluid grace unbecoming of an injured military grunt. He hoists her onto his hip and quickens his pace, intent on seeking shelter. Newt’s arms lock around his neck, her legs dangling idly. She props her chin on Hicks’ shoulder and tightens her grip, allowing herself to be carried whilst regarding Ripley with solemn, haunted eyes.

The light is disappearing. With no clue how long the night lasts here, they walk faster, traipsing through the sand, seeking shelter and salvation.

* * *

It’s not much, perhaps a district outpost or a small research station. There was once a settlement here, battered buildings and spare parts strewn as far as the eye can see. Radar dishes and dead satellites jutting out from the sand. Long abandoned, it serves its newfound purpose, providing protection from the night winds howling outside.

“Yuck,” Newt grumbles, eyeing the glass of stained liquid being passed to her. “It’s yellow.”

“It’s wet,” Hicks says. “You need to drink –“

“It’s been boiled, Newt,” Ripley replies. “Drink up, you’re –“

“Looks like pee,” Newt says, almost conversationally. She scrunches her nose, sniffing the offending substance before pushing it aside. Her eyes settle on Ripley’s, and a ghost of a smirk lights her filthy face. “Got any hot chocolate?”

Hicks just looks exasperated, but Ripley can’t help but stifle a smile.

* * *

He’s been gone for a while, but they’re not concerned. Hicks maps the territory daily with his usual dogged determination and focus. He salvages what he can; wild animals to skin and cook, scrap metal, fuel to burn. He brings odds and ends back from each daily pilgrimage, dumping them to the floor and shaking off the copious amounts of sand coating his jacket and clothing.

Ripley doesn’t stray far from the outpost. The mothering instinct never fades, and she dotes on Newt, a replacement for the child she lost due to fathomless sleep.

Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they play games, and sometimes they just clean. Makeshift brooms sweep an endless supply of sand and dust from the floor. It’s a redundant exercise but one that brings a blessed familiarity to an otherwise tenuous, uncertain situation.

* * *

The dressings are dry. Although the fabric is by now tattered and torn, Ripley continues washing them daily with due diligence.

“Quit whining,” she remarks softly, noting the way Hicks grits his teeth as she cleans out the wounds lining the side of his face. “It looks good.”

“Feels like a soggy grilled-cheese sandwich,” Hicks sighs, eyeing the small jar of antiseptic clutched in Ripley’s hand. “How much left?”

“Not enough,” she says, glancing at Newt’s sleeping figure; her minute features glowing in the firelight. Newt’s tattered, disembodied doll head lies cradled within her armpit, half-suffocated within a mass of charcoal linen and bedraggled, patchy hair.

“Healing well, considering what…” Ripley starts, before trailing off completely, because finishing that sentence means remembering what caused the pitted burns etched deep within his skin.

She finishes applying the dressings and rises to her feet, tossing the cream into the medi-kit. Dropping to the floor beside Newt, she pulls the little girl close, soothing the whimpers due to the night terrors that still occasionally assail her dreams.

“I’ll scout the west quadrant tomorrow,” Hicks says tiredly, slumping back against the wall, his face lined and slack. “Head past the northern wall.”

His eyes are already closed, and Ripley watches him for a while, comforted by his presence and his quiet confidence.

* * *

Hicks tosses in a weary “Honey, I’m home,” greeting as he shoulders his way through the door, laden with supplies. There’s more scrap metal in this haul, and they spend the next few days adding another room to the outpost, working to make their house a home for strangers who have become a rag-tag assortment of comrades, thrown together under duress and necessity.

There’s another cluster of buildings about twenty clicks north, damaged and battered, but there’s a beacon inside that appears to be in working order. It has yet to be activated, and Hicks leaves it alone for now, almost troubled by the discovery.

They sit together under the stars and moons, propped against an old air filtering unit, discussing their options. Newt plays nearby, attempting grand cartwheels in the sand and oblivious to the levity of the situation.

“We’re all liabilities,” Ripley remarks, clutching a glass of boiled bore water in her hand. It hasn’t killed them or turned them blind, so the yellowing liquid must be relatively safe. She sighs, slumping back further, drawing her knees up to her chest and surveying the scene before them. “We know too much. Wayland-Yutani are more than capable of having us disappear just as soon as we resurface.”

Hicks nods. He’s quiet, considering the implications. A born leader, he only ever fills the silence with something meaningful or profound.

It’s a characteristic she’s grown to appreciate over their short time together.

They sit and talk, both keeping one eye trained on Newt and the other seemingly trained on one another other, casting admiring glances. He reaches for her hand, threading his fingers through hers, a representation of their commitment to remain here for now.

Later, under the cover of darkness, they make love on a lone mattress, quiet and desperate, clinging to one another as they seek release. Newt slumbers in the next room; oblivious to the whispered words and low moans.

Three strangers under one roof, thrown together under traumatic circumstances and gradually settling into some semblance of normality. 

A makeshift, somewhat dysfunctional family.

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. I agree. David Fincher’s Alien Three was a travesty...


End file.
